


Brush Off The Grime Of Yesterday (And Begin Again)

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Series: Where Revolutions End, You Can Begin [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Depressed Hank Anderson, Father and Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Grieving, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank Anderson-centric, connor is a good son, implied pre connor/markus, lots of mentions of cole, mentions of hanks ex wife who i named isobel, set during a time span of five months, you heard of friends to lovers now get ready for friends to father and son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: Hank didn't deserve the android.Or, five times he was grateful for Connor.





	Brush Off The Grime Of Yesterday (And Begin Again)

1.

It starts a few weeks after everything goes back to normal.

Or, close to it, Hank doesn't think anything's gonna be normal for a while. How long a while is he isn't actually sure. When _should_ things normal again after a literal revolution?

The kid has been living with him for all five of those weeks, taking up residence on the couch until further notice, or, whenever androids finally getting some fucking property rights. It's the least he could do. He did save his life after all. Which, looking back, Connor was a fucking _fighting machine_ when he put his mind to it.

Or maybe he didn't even have to think about it. His point was Connor could _kick_  ass. Even against a clone.

It was going to take a while for Android Rights to take off, despite all of the negotiating, he figured. However long the shitty politics of it all have to take to get them rights to actually have _somewhere_  of their own to sleep, his home is Connor's. He owes him that much.

And, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, Connor isn't an all bad roommate. Or a bad partner for that matter. Connor hadn't rejoined the force yet, but that didn't mean he hadn't given Hank advice on the past few cases. Pretty solid advice if you asked him. And, if he was _truly_ being honest, Connor had grown on him. He was a good man.

His eyes open sluggishly, raising a left arm to shield them from the harsh, unforgiving rays of the morning sun. He groans, raising the torn blanket to his face. The sun never fucking helped a hangover. Not one fucking bit. He hears Sumo softly snore from the somewhere on the floor.

It's a Sunday in December, and despite sunshine the cold shows no sign of being merciful. He doesn't have to leave the house or check the temperature to know it's probably below freezing. Detroit was a nightmare during winter. That was guaranteed at least.

His door was ajar slightly, and he could hear the living room tv playing a news report softly from the other room, from where he laid on the bed he saw the left half of the obscured face of whichever reporter was giving the forecast. The distant clattering in the kitchen floating through the air. The normalcy was familiar and alien at the same time.

He smells something. Bacon, his mind offers. Which, now that his house is no longer occupied by just himself, isn't exactly alarming. Connor had been making him breakfast for the past five weeks. And dinner. No matter how much he told him he didn't need to. He didn't mind the help, he minded that Connor felt he h _ad_  to help.

He misses the gratuitous amount of fast food intake, he barely cooked before. He guesses his heart does not.

And, until a week ago, Connor had been waking him up each morning. Until a grumpy Monday morning Hank had finally stumbled out of bed and politely (maybe he snapped a bit) sat down and told him he didn't need to act like his goddamn butler. Connor had quickly apologized, assured he wouldn't wake Hank up again, and, like no confrontation had even happened, changed the subject.

Eventually they'd have to have an actual conversation, He realizes. He doesn't _want_  to exactly. He isn't sure what the conversation would even sound like. Something along of the lines of _you know you don't have be my servant just because you live here now right?_

He hates bacon though. It reminds him of the breakfast he would make Cole before school. When he and Isobel would coax him out of bed with eggs and bacon. Right before he would grab his navy blue backpack adorned by grey dolphins that he always, _always_ fucking struggled to zip up by himself-

He hated mornings. He wants to crawl back under the trio of blankets and sleep until tomorrow. Mornings were bullshit. He needed to breathe. Fucking _bacon._

Usually he was drunk by now, on a bad day at least. Usually he didn't have to think of these things until his sixth bottle. Which he never got to, he was always passed out by his fifth.

He only had three whiskey's last night, not for a lack of trying however. By the time he come back from a piss Connor had hid the remaining bottles. He had been so _pissed_ before stomping off to pass out in the comfort of his own bed.

Maybe that had been for the best, he muses. Wouldn't of done him any fucking good to think about Cole with five bottles in him. He always tried to do something during his fifth. Whether it was a date with a game of Russian Roulette or a twenty minute puke in the toilet. Or something worse.

What fucking ever. He thinks. Less of a hangover. Less time to drunkenly wallow in the last few years of sorrow grief. There was that, at least.

He glances at the digital clock beside him, red numbers yelling at him. Eight Thirty, that's new. He hasn't woken up this early by himself in three years. It feels weird. Maybe the kid's influence was rubbing off on him. Not that it was a bad thing.

After a few moments, he sighs, sitting up, the sun that melts through the curtains persistently falling onto his eyes. And, after another minute, pushes the blankets back and swinging his legs over the bed. The house feels colder without them. And without socks. Sumo trails behind him.

He gently pushes the bedroom door open, the sizzling of the frying pan greeting his ears first, the voices on the tv more or less white noise to him. He turns, meeting the back of Connor inside of the kitchen.

The android still doesn't have clothes of his own, or, money for that matter to buy said clothes with. Save for a brown jacket and beanie. And Hank was getting tired of seeing him sporting that same Cyberlife jacket he first talked to him in. They both were. The hoodie he loaned him was definitely bit big for him, but anything had to of been better than that damned jacket.

Connor glances back. "Good morning Hank!"

The grey haired man plops down into nearest kitchen chair, sticking a hand under his chin for support. " I think you and I have very different definitions of what a good morning is, kid." He runs a hand over his face.

"Mornings are pleasant though." Connor muses.

"Easy for you to say, you don't go to sleep and end up waking up tired. Or need sleep at all actually."

Connor hums. "I'm making food, though. Don't humans always feel better after they've had some food?" He asks.

Hank shrugs, letting both of his arms rest on the table. "You've got a point there."

Connor looks back, softly smiling, before returning back to cooking, giving a nearby Sumo a gentle pat on the head. And for a while they keep each other company in silence, save for the noise of the frying pan and tv, and an occasional cough from the older man.

Eventually however, Hank cuts through the silence. He wants to get this over with, whatever _this_ is.

"You know you don't have to do this.. right Connor?" He hopes he knows. He's smarter than that.

Connor spares a quick look back at him. "Do what?"

Hank raises his arms, gesturing. This is the second time they've had this conversation, he thinks. "You know, this. All of it. You know what I mean." The unspoken _acting like you're still programmed to have to help_ hangs in the air waiting to drop like a shoe.

Connor tilts his head. moving towards the table and setting down the fresh plate of bacon and toast with a small clatter. "What, cook breakfast? I think I actually might enjoy it." He admits. "It's relaxing, despite not being able to actually eat what I make."

"That isn't..exactly what I meant- look, can you just..sit down a second? Please?"  Hank sighs, looking up at him, using a hand to gesture at the chair in front of him.

Connor frowns but complies, stepping forward and lowering himself into a chair, arms folded neatly in his lap.

"Did I...do something wrong?" He asks, chestnut eyes staring back at him.

"No, you didn't it's- just- you don't have to do all of this, Connor. Making me breakfast, dinner, hell, until a week ago you were even waking me up in the morning. You know you aren't programmed to serve anyone anymore right? This is your house just as much as it's mine. You don't have to walk on eggshells."

The android stays quiet for a moment, biting his lip, he looks down, avoiding eye contact. Until he speaks.

"Lieutenant-"

"Hank."

"-Hank, I know, i'm not doing any of this because I have to. Or because I believe I owe you. Well, it's partly that." Connor starts.

"I...you took me in, when.. when I had nowhere else to go. You opened your home to someone who not even five days ago you _hated_  and I just... I _wanted_ to show my gratitude. And if i'm being honest it's also because I wanted you to get....healthier." Connor continues.

"Healthier." Hank echos.

Connor nods, shifting in his chair, he wrings his hands. "You're unhealthy, Hank." He states in an empty voice.

"Well jeez thanks, appreciate this fucking observation." Hank remarks. "Always a nice day to bring up my shitty lifestyle."

Connor sighs, raising his head.  "No it's.. it's just...You're a good man, lieutenant. You let me into your _home a_ fter only five or six days of knowing me. I'm grateful...Hank. And I don't... _want_  you to _die."_  He confesses, frustration in his voice.

Hank blinks, taken aback. He leans forward. "I'm not dying, kid."

"You're a self destructive alcoholic, Hank." Connor says softly, looking everywhere but Hank's eyes. I'm sure if I hadn't said yes to your offer of living here, you'd still be sleeping right now. And possibly drunk. And you would of spent last night far drunker."

Hank huffs, annoyance bubbling up. "Thanks." He says, pushing his chair back, harshly, and heading towards the other room. "I loved our little chat."

"Hank. Please just- what I meant," Connor sighs, raising his voice slightly. "is, that you're my friend." He continues. Hank stops a few meters short of the living room, clenching and unclenching his hands before slowly turning around.

"And," Connor continues, shifting again and crossing his arms. "I hope with time I could be yours. But I don't want you to just...waste away. I thought since you let me lay on your couch each night, the least I could do was make sure you weren't going to just let yourself slowly die because I like you a _live."_

Hank blinks. Unbelievable. He thinks. Usually people paid those who let them sleep on their couch, in their home, paid them back with money, or bought them a plant or something. Connor however, set out on a _mission_  to make sure he didn't end up drinking himself to death or something. If it was anyone else giving him this much grief, he would of picked them up and thrown them out of his house as he picked up another drink.

But the sincerity of it all, however short their friendship has been so far, he trusts Connor's intentions.

He doesn't deserve to have to worry about him.

"I understand if I have upset you." Connor says quietly. "But you deserve to be able to live again. Resume your life."

Resume life. Resume life because he's spent the last three years with his on _pause_ as he drank himself into a deep, whiskey scented, bottomless, hole.

Without his _son._

Without _Cole._

Hank closes the distance between him and the table, pulling the chair out, settling down into it again. For a moment he says nothing.

"I'll quit making you breakfast and dinner so much. Or altogether, you'd like. But I won't stop being persistent with the drinking." Connor says.

Hank scoffs. "You sound like my ex wife."

"Sorry."

"No it's...you're a good kid, Connor. You know that?"

"I'm not a kid, lieutenant. I'm a RK800 android, however I was designed to look to like an adult man in his late twentie-"

"Fuck sake kid, you know what I meant."

Connor cracks a smile, a moment or two later Hank speaks again.

"I can't promise i'll stop completely, or even a little bit. It's...hard. But i'll...try. Harder, at least. But, shit, you don't have to worry about me dying, any time soon."

"That's good. Can I help you in anyway?"

"God, no. You've...helped enough. And I didn't even have to ask. I have to do this by myself. But if I do need help i'll tell ya okay?"

Connor nods.

"Good. Now, this bacon is gonna go cold if I don't eat it. So, if you excuse me..."He trails off, digging into it.

Connor leaves him to his food, and for once in a long while, Hank genuinely smiles.

He felt grateful.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

2 .

Christmas was always off for him, even before he lost Cole.

It was a naturally cheery, bright, warm holiday. And he wasn't any of that. By nature. It felt foreign and off to him. He wasn't some scrooge. He enjoyed Christmas just as much as the next person. He just didn't _connect_  with it. Not like those who celebrated the holiday did. And not as much as he probably should. Still, before Connor, Sumo was the one keeping him sane through the holiday season.

It's Christmas Eve and, despite his disillusionment with the season, he's out shopping at the v _ery_  last minute for a certain android against his better judgement. Christmas Eve was the absolute _worst_ for shopping. A world class shitshow.

But still here he was, in his local mall, on Christmas Eve, like the dumbass he is.

It's mostly (completely) due to Connor's hint early this morning, implying Hank would be ecstatic over "something" tomorrow morning. And the wave of guilt that punches Hank's stomach immediately after. He hadn't even t _hought_  to get him something. But to be fair, Connor doesn't often mention what he likes. He guesses _he's_  still figuring out that himself. He only went deviant a month ago.

Finding a parking space, even with all the new technology and developments that have blessed the world in recent years, is still a nightmare however. Some things will never change. Even despite the time of night he drove all the way here at, the world is still very much awake.

After what seems like hours, Hank manages to find a parking space, heaving a sigh as he turns the keys and pockets them. He sits there, watching people come and go with overflowing shopping carts as they hurriedly pour into their cars and out of the lot like rats.

He opens the door, hand slamming it shut as he steps down from the driver's seat and onto the snow, softly crunching it as he walks farther. He squints at the harsh neon lights that decorate the grey building this time of year, going inside.

He hasn't been to the mall in at least a decade or three, coming up short of reasons to have needed to. Cole had always been satisfied with things he managed to get from toy stores and Hank didn't like the crowds that malls always brought. Malls were only decent in small doses.

The faint noise of holiday melodies grows louder as he gets closer, and the sound of bells ringing as charities sit outside, expressions patient and hopeful. He hands one a ten dollar bill as he passes by, barley picking up the distant "Thank you!" as he steps inside the blindingly bright building.

If he thought the outside was full, the inside of the mall was a _swarm._

People were packed inside of every shop, swarms of people flocking to them. From just standing outside, peering into the stores and watching the frantic wave of activity that seemed to infect the whole building, it was most definitely the holiday season. The first three stores were all practically _stripped._  of any and all goods and clothing.

Fuck. He thought. This was going to be harder than he thought.

He could always text him, he thinks. Ask him what he wants and get it over with. It would make it easier and faster in terms of getting out of here before it descends into any _more_  chaos.

He's halfway to typing a text out before a sudden thought crosses his mind.

This is Connor's first Christmas. First Christmas _ever._ Connor was only made this year, he remembers. He's literally, truly, never had one before.

Well now he _really_ feels like a jackass. Connor's done so much for him since November, far too much. And he waited until the last minute to even remember getting him something.

And for living with him, he has to admit it's been nice. Having someone other than himself to keep him company. And someone who looked out for him. Even if he thought _he_ was the one doing the looking out for with Connor. After all, _Connor_  was the one who actually managed to get himself killed before.

The sudden memory of Stratford Tower makes his skin crawl for a brief moment as he shakes his head. He didn't really feel like reliving Connor dying in his arms again. Felt too much like Cole again. The fear, the crippling sense of loss.

But _Cole_ didn't come back, he thinks. Neither will the Connor that died in the tower. But at least he had _this_ Connor. He still had some luck. In him.

He wishes he knew where to start looking. In the one and a half month he's known Connor, he's only expressed interest in a select few number of things. Dogs, fish, cooking, inexplicably _pop music._  At least for now. He hopes with time Connor will find out what he likes. After everything he's gone through the kid deserves that much at the very least. He's possibly come in and changed his life after all. He did change his views on androids.

Or maybe that was due to Markus. He thinks it might of been all of them. Connor, Markus, the androids who chose to finally make themselves heard.

 _Fuck_ that was still a lot to think about.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, he comes upon a store he just _knows_  Connor will love.

The sign's lights fizzle and twinkle in out and in of existence, but still shine nonetheless.

_Shawn's Fish Store_

By pure luck, it's open, and, a number of fish are still inside tanks, anxiously waiting to be sold to and carried by a caring pair of hands. Hank quickly enters.

Fishes of all skins, colors and sizes reside in them, populating the shop, from a dull, plump, grey to a gaudy deep orange that practically _glows._

A person sits behind the counter, adorning a tacky multicolored beach shirt, and whose face is obscured by a book on bears of all things.

"Hello!" The clerk greets. "Any of these fellas catch your eyes?"

The person behind the store counter is a freckled ivory skinned chestnut haired man in possibly his early twenties. He's young looking enough that Hank almost can't believe he works here.

"Any...simple, fish?" He asks, unsure of what questions he _should_ be asking.

The clerk laughs. "Yes we do."

He looks around around, glancing at tanks before one catches his eyes. A clownfish.

"How much is that one?" He points.

"Oh him?  Alone he costs only $70!"

Hank holds in a sigh. "Alone?"

The clerk, Will, judging from his name tag, nods. "Unless you have all the necessary parts for your aquarium, the total cost for your standard equipment is....oh! at least $500!"

"Ah fuck!" He lets it slip. The things he was doing for this kid.

Will laughs. "Unless all you want is a simple fish, then it's just 70!"

"Oh thank fuck!"

After he manages to scrounge up the necessary funds, and manages to put the fish bowl in the backseat, suppressing a yawn, he heads home.

The next day he wakes up before Connor gets out of stasis, not on purpose, but takes advantage of the opportunity, and grabs the fish bowl he (surprisingly) managed to hid from Sumo.

Stasis was somewhat similar to human sleep, from what Connor has told him. He was _technically_ asleep. But his major programs still ran at full capacity. Except for simulated breathing, and his eyes were _open._ Which combined managed to make Hank nearly shit himself the first time he saw it and made Connor promise to force them shut them next time if he was going to quit _breathing._  It made it somewhat less unnerving.

Connor lays on the couch, Sumo draped over him like a blanket. He's curled in a way that _does_  make it seem like he's a regular human sleeping. Hank clears his throat.

"Connor."

Almost immediately, Connor's eyes flutter open, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before they dart to Hank as he runs his hands through Sumo's thick fur.

"It's Christmas!" Connor informs.

"Yeah it is, I got you something."

"Wait!" Connor exclaims. "I want to give you mine first."

At Hank's quizzical expression, the android bolts from his spot on the couch, coming back with a box decorated with green-red wrapping paper. He extends his hand, offering him it.

"Open it." He says. sitting on the edge of the couch.

Hank obeys, hurriedly unwrapping it as Connor practically bounces from his spot.

By the time he gets to what's inside, he's smiling.

A Knight's Of The Black Death autograph.

He laughs. "How did you get this Connor? Most of the original band members are gone."

Connors smiles sheepishly. "The internet. Mostly sites of people selling things. But it is, completely, authentic. I made sure."

Hank doesn't know what to say.

"Thank you, Connor. Now I feel like a chump, I only got you a fish."

Connor, for lack of a better word, bolts straight up at this, as if attacked.

"You WHAT?! Where?! Where is it?" He asks, positively _radiating._ His grin feels infectious. It reminds Hank of Cole when he got his the newest edition of his comic book their last christmas together.

"Alright, alright. One second, kid."

When Hank returns, Connor's smile, if possible, only grows larger.

"Oh! an amphiprioninae!" He exclaims.

"You can- you can call it a clownfish Connor."

Connor grabs the bowl, as Sumo whines. "Oh...Can I name him?" He asks.

Hank shrugs. "It's your fish."

Connor studies the fish for a moment, before deciding.

"Dog."

"What?"

"Can I name him Dog?"

Hank blinks. "I mean...sure?"

"Excellent." Connor smiles. "Thank you so much Hank, i'll cherish Dog The Fish forever.

Hank isn't sure if he's fucking with him, but judging by Connor's gleeful expression, he's thinking it's genuine.

"Yeah, you're welcome, Connor. Merry Christmas."

Connor looks up, softly smiling. "Merry Christmas, Lieutenant."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
A couple days later, they sit together on Hank's couch, Sumo is sprawled on Connor like some rug and Dog's fish bowl sits nearby as they watch an old Christmas movie Hank swears Connor roped him into watching. It's late, and Hank feels the soft touch of sleep still tugging his eyelids. He stays awake however. Connor had never even _seen_  this before. And despite its cheesiness it was always better when you had someone to watch it with.

A few minutes later, Connor grabs the remote, pausing whatever movie this was near its conclusion as the dazzling sound of fireworks banging and poping through the air is heard. Sumo perks up, letting out a soft whine before trotting off to Hank's room. Connor looks at the clock, and then at Hank. a smile crossing his features.

"Happy New Year, Lieutenant." He says.

Hank smiles back. Not a polite, forced one, but a real one. "Happy New Year, kid."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

3 . Connor's decidedly going to be the death of him. Because of _course_ he is.

It's February, it's _still_  freezing, and the kid is once again, officially his partner.

He's pissed off, more from fear than any actual anger towards Connor, but fear stresses him and stress makes him angry.

It's February, and Connor's nearly gone and gotten himself killed. _again._ for the second time. _second t_ ime.

Androids still didn't have all the rights humans had yet, but they were getting there. And the first law that had gone into effect in the new year allowed them to pick their job of choice.

Connor chose to come back. Not because it was what he was designed for, but because he wanted to help people. Help his kind. Help anyone he can.

He thinks maybe it's also because he still felt guilt over once hunting them down. No matter how many times he tells him it was more Cyberlife's fault than his. That he was just as much a victim in all of it. He's sure the fucking kid is still beating himself up for it regardless.

They had been assigned any violence toward androids cases alongside human murders since January, case for the missing androids that had been inexplicably disappearing in Detroit. And Connor had been the _next_  to go missing.

 

It starts when he doesn't come home the next night.

He had told Hank he was headed to Jericho, to catch Markus up on any leads they might of had. Not, Hank thought, that Connor really _needed_  a reason to want to see Markus. But that part wasn't really his business, not unless Connor wanted to talk to him about...whatever exactly he _was_  feeling towards the revolutionary.

But as Markus had informed him this morning, Connor never showed up. _at all_ And whatever android form of calling another android Markus had tried, it hadn't worked.

If he hadn't known Connor was a person to at least _call_ before not showing up somewhere, or at home. Or known Connor was a person who had this _damn_ habit of getting himself into trouble, he wouldn't of been worried immediately. Connor was his own person, he could stay out as much as he pleased.

But with 20 androids missing in one week, and without hearing a _nything_ from the other man the next day, Hank is _scared._

He is n _ot_ going to go through another loss. So the little shit _better_  still be alive.

He's not even sure h _ow_ someone might of got the jump on Connor. He could probably take out five people just by himself.

He's so in his own head, that he almost forgot Markus was even beside him until he lays a hand on Hank's shoulder.

"We'll find him, Lieutenant. And everyone else. Don't worry." Markus's voice is filled with his usual gentle, calm demeanor.

Hank only nods, but he sees the same hint of urgency in his mismatched eyes that he feels. They fucking better.

They do. Two days later.

Two anxiety fueled days of, at most, 2 hours of sleep, Sumo's concerned whines at the absence of the android decorated couch, copious amounts of coffee, and barely avoiding a drink. He did say he'd try after all.

Eventually there's a lead, or, rather, a blue haired female AX400 android that stumbles into the precinct at 2pm. In ratty jeans and a _cyberlife s_ hirt.

She's in tears, and if it wasn't for the fact that whoever she is could get her closer to Connor, he'd leave the comforting to another officer. He was _terrible_  at comforting strangers.

Instead he sits across from her as she dons someone's jacket spread across her shoulders that obscure the serial numbers on the shirt that implies she is still property, and tries his best to get her to tell him where she's been. If she even knows who took her. (And the others.)

She tells them of a warehouse, of the Red Ice being produced there, (with the help of their blue blood) how she managed to barely escape. She tells them everything she can.

It's enough. And an hour later they've stormed the place.

Anybody that's chosen to work there doesn't get far, as those who don't perish in the proceeding fire fight are quickly thrown in the back of a police cruiser, or handcuffed in the back of an ambulance as they drive to the nearest hospital. It brings him back to his task force days.

He finds Connor in the basement.

For a crippling moment he thinks he's gone, tied standing up on some column before his head of chestnut hair raises itself.

"Hello?" He asks. "Is someone there?"

It's only then he realizes the androids eyes, (optical units, he thinks) are currently placed on a nearby table.

That's fucking...not great. He thinks.

"I'm here, it's me kid." He notices the relief wash over his features, before he continues, walking over to the table. "Uh, would it work if I put these back in you?" He asks.

Connor tilts his head. "Are you holding my eyes? If you untie me I can put them back in correctly."

He wants to feel offended at the 'correctly' part, before he remembers he barely knows how to get to google on his phone, and goes to untie him.

"Aside from, uh, this, are you okay?" He asks. The flood of relief flows through him at the hope that his eyes (or lack of) were the only issue.

"I think so, they only took my optical units because I was causing trouble." He informs as he manages to put both in again.

"Trouble?"

Connor grins. "I may of broken two of these men's noses. And one of their arms."

He pats him on the back. "That's the spirit! Now, c'mon kid, lets home. Sumo's such a sad sack without you. And before s _omeone_  ambushes me with fucking paperwork." He laughs.

Connor follows behind, smiling, before Hank turns back for a second.

"Oh and, uh, Connor?" He asks

"Don't go doing something like this again, getting yourself kidnapped by some wannabe dealers. For my sake at least."

Connor stares at him for a moment, expression thoughtful.

"You were worried about me?" He questions.

Hank waves a hand dismissively. "Aw don't act surprised, you're a good partner, Connor. Don't make this weird."

Connor smiles. "You were worried."

Hank sighs. "Yeah of course I was worried Connor." The unspoken y _ou're family._  goes unsaid.

They bustle into the passenger and driver's seat respectfully, heading to Chicken Feed.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

4 .

Hank's never really done Spring Cleaning. Even before everything that happened. Cleaning was time consuming.

Something shifts in April. Someone intensely hopeful and new.

In five months, it will have been four months since the car flipped over in practically slow motion and he lost Cole forever. And Isobel, though he lost her entirely on his own.

Hank's been up since 8 cleaning waking with the rest of the world as he hears the birds sing a unceasing, if not slightly annoying, melody. Each moment getting closer to opening Cole's room before walking away again. t _ime._ He needs fucking time. Even if the whole point of this was _to g_ et around to his room. He isn't avoiding, he tells himself. He isn't.

Connor hasn't noticed his hesitance towards going into Cole's room yet. Or if he has he hasn't said anything. Hank isn't sure how he'd talk to Connor about this anyways. What he even _wants_ to say to him.

Connor's been busy cleaning himself, seemingly taking solace in the task. He's bumped into him a few times, exchanged a few greetings as he's scrubbed and discarded throughout the house.

But mostly he's been in his bedroom, he's had a lot of stuff just lying around the past couple years. He still isn't avoiding.

Maybe he's avoiding, just the tiniest bit.

He hasn't been in Cole's room since the week after the accident, he's drunkenly ripped off the wooden name sign with his name off the door that he bought him for his 5th birthday and broke it into several tiny little pieces, but he's hasn't stepped foot inside the room in _four years._

Isobel couldn't either, he thinks. But he doubts she had time to even try with all the unceasing yelling and blaming they did in the following four months before she moved out.

He doesn't want to go in it. Going in feels like an invitation to finally move on. To embrace the fucking healing process. He doesn't want to _have_  to move on. He doesn't want to be the parent that fondly remembers a bittersweet memory of their long dead daughter or son before resuming whatever they were doing before the memory hit them. Like a f _unctional_  grieving parent. He wants to remember every moment with him.

Maybe there is no functional grieving parent. Maybe it's a bunch of smoke and mirrors.

There's a part of him that _does_  long to move on. Wants his heart to hurt less, not think about playing a game of Russian Roulette with a bottle of whiskey and a pistol every time something reminds him of Cole. It feels...so possible. The thought of being _alright_ again. It fades in and out of the realm of possibility like breath on a mirror more times than he'd like to admit.

He was tired of being angry with the world.

Then Connor came. Every moment with him felt like the moment the android doctor came back to tell him his s _on_ was _dead_  all over again. That * _he_ * had to done all he could do because the real doctor had been in some hospital closet getting high of Red Ice.

And Connor had come in and _stuck._ He had torn down those accusatory, grief fueled walls that overflowed with beer and spite that told him every android was the reason his son was _dead._

He doesn't know what he did to deserve Connor appearing in his life.

Androids have had the right to move into their own homes for a month now.

Connor chose to stay.

They haven't talked about it. He just sort of stuck around. _Stayed._

Hank finds that he doesn't actually mind. And he's been drinking less.

And in a way, it's another chance. However reluctant he is to talk about it with Connor, it feels like a second start. A reason to t _ry._

Maybe they don't * _need_ * to talk about it. He thinks. Maybe it's unspoken.

_Family._

Eventually he manages to clean up or throw away all the things he didn't even know he had, trinkets, clothes he never wore anymore. Junk.

Except for the album.

He's kept the photo album shoved far into the deep recesses of the closet, like it's some sort of skeleton for him. And he supposes it _is_  one. Even if he moves on. He's not going to throw it away. Not _ever._

It's a baby blue colored, daisy decorated thick mass of a book. However short his time was with him, there was _so many_ memories of him. So many moments he felt so unbelievably _goddamn_  lucky to be privileged enough to even have. To even have the honor of witnessing. being a part of.

He runs a shaky hand over the outside of it, sighing. The daisy decor is still as scratchy as the day Isobel and Cole made it. They wanted it to be so s _pecial_

Slowly, he heads to Cole's room, a shaking hand opens the handle.

His room is still the same way he left it the morning he left forever. Aside from the old whiskey bottle he left on the floor when he came into the room drunk the week after the funeral. Isobel had been so angry.

He doesn't know why he chose t _oday_  to try and move on. Shit, why he chose today to be the day he finally went in the room. But he's here.

It's a room decorated by blue and green walls, walls joined by posters of this show Cole never stayed quiet about. In a way this room is deceitful, he's half expecting Cole to come crashing into it, asking him why he's in it and if he come with him to watch his shows.

He won't. But Hank can dream.

He has two bags with him. One for the things he can bear to get rid of, and the things he isn't sure he's ready to get rid of just yet. Maybe with time he will be, but this isn't the day.

Sluggishly, he moves forward to grab various things, it feels automatic. Like h _e's_  the android.

He takes the bag of things he kept with him, setting it down on the table next to the album as he sits on the couch with it.

He sees Connor out of the corner of his eye, a look of confusion, and then slight concern as he glances at the open door of what he can only assume is _Coles_  room. And then back to him.

"Hank? What are you doing?" He asks softly.

Hank breathes in. "Spring Cleaning, kid."

"Are you okay?" Connor questions.

Hank scoffs. "I don't know. You know Cole helped make this?" He asks, holding up the album. "He was so proud of it."

"It looks very well made." Connor says simply. _He's trying_  Hank thinks. He knows Connor sometimes has trouble with emotional support. He sure as shit was himself.

"Yeah. Yeah it sure is." He laughs bitterly. He holds up a toy he didn't end up throwing out. "I got this for his 3rd birthday. He was so....happy." Hank never wanted a drink this badly. But a month sober can't be all for nothing.

Connor moves, sitting down next to him. "Is that a photo album?" There weren't that many people that used them. At least physical paper versions nowadays.

Hank smiles. "Yeah. five years worth of memories in 'em."

The android doesn't say anything, and Hank continues.

"You know...the day Cole was born.. I thought I was the luckiest person on the goddamn planet." He starts. "He was one of the few great things to have happened to me. He was so...small and...happy. I didn't know what I did to deserve him. This...chance, I was given."

Hank opens a page of the album to a series of photos. His eyes set on one of them. A exhausted but grinning golden haired woman with grey eyes and a crooked nose held a blanket wrapped newborn. Next to them, a younger, less grizzled Hank stood nearby, a smile formed on his features.

"Those were the happiest six years of my life." Hank explains. "Until I took him for an afternoon drive and only one of us came out it."

Connor looks how Hank feels. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant." He doesn't bother to correct him with 'Hank.'

"Yeah...Me too."

Hesitantly, he closes the album with a heavy sigh. He needed to say it now or the room would just continue to collect dust. Cole loved the room. It didn't feel right to just let it suffer that fate.

"Look, Connor." He starts, shifting his body so that he was facing the other man. "I cleaned out the room...well, because it felt...like the right thing. Cole didn't deserve for it just be a ghost town.  But...also, maybe you deserve to use it now. Cole fucking l _oved_  androids. Only feels right that you use it now."

Connor's eyes widen slightly. "Hank, I... I'm perfectly alright with going into stasis on the couch, I don't even require a bed, I don't even need to go into stasis at night. I couldn't possibly take Cole-"

"Just say yes. Alright, you've been living here for five months, kid. And you don't even have a bed." Hank interrupts.

"But..it's _Cole's_  room Hank. Are you sure your ready for that?" Connor asks.

Hank runs a hand over his face. "No, if i'm honest. But I need to fucking...do this someday or other." _Moving on._

Both of them sit there for a good five seconds.

"You aren't Cole, Connor. But you're still...family." _A son._

Hank continues. "You're family, now. Take the room."

Connor stays silent, expression thoughtful, before nodding.

Hank stands, walking towards his room.

"Where you going?" Connor asks.

"To bed, I need a damn nap." Hank says in an empty voice.

"I think of you as my family too." Connor says suddenly.

Hank turns. Connor's eyes shine in the living room lamps light next to the couch, his expression is warm, content. It's the happiest he's ever seen him.

"Good. That's good." He says, gently shutting the door.

Good.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
5 .

The crisp May air does nothing to cool the anxious and excited energy of the both of them.

They stand in line as androids move about, some are crying tears of joy, some are laughing.

Today was the day they get to chose their last names, and become recognized citizens. At least in the eyes of the government. Some people still needed convincing. Or a whack on the head. Maybe both.

It had taken six months, but Android Rights were in full swing now, more or less.

Hank stands in a overflowing line of androids, nearby Connor stands with him, a red beanie on his head and sporting a grey jacket, a ball of impatient anxious energy.

This was his day, Hank thinks.

Markus was the first to get his, smiling as he chose the name 'Manfred.' He looked fond, however bittersweet it may of felt for some reason.

A few people they knew came and went,  Connor had said hello to them as they cheerily announced their last name of choice and their recognized citizenship and stance as equals with humans. Well, most humans.

North (He thinks that's her name, he wasn't sure) had come past them a good 15 minutes ago with the last name August, A blonde android who Connor seemed to know announced his was Wright. All of this only increased the androids excited impatience with the process.

It felt bittersweet almost. Shit, it shouldn't of taken this long.

"You ready for this, Kid?" He asks.

Connor nods, a smile escaping him for a moment. "Yes. Yes.  _very."_

He uses his hand to mess up his hair a bit. "That's good. It's a big fucking thing, becoming legally a person. I'd think."

"I still don't know what I would like my last name to be. Can you call yourself what your species is? Like...Connor Robot."

Hank laughs. "That feels like calling Hank Human Being but, if you like that name i'm sure not gonna stop ya."

Eventually they're second in line, and Connor's indecisiveness is still present.

"Robert? No that's stupid. Rowan? That doesn't feel right..."

"Hello." The android behind the counter greets cheerfully as the other person in line heads to get their ID in the back. "Can I get your model and first name?"

Connor looks up, startled from his last name dilemma.

"Oh." He breathes. "RK800. And Connor."

The woman types something in on the computer, before smiling warmly at him.

"Alright Connor. What do you want your last name to be?"

Connor makes a tiny noise, indecision crossing his features.

He says it before he thinks it.

"Why not Anderson?" He asks as the chatter of the building plays in the background.

Connor snaps his head towards him, blinking. "What?"

"You know, Anderson. What do you think of it."

"You...want me to have.. your last name?" He says, not understanding.

"Isn't that what family does?"

Connor's shock morphs into a smile, a grin that feels like the brightest his face ever been.

"Hank- I..." He trails off, voice cracking. Hank is suddenly engulfed by arms as Connor jumps to embrace him. He gives a surprised grunt.

"Jeez kid, you give intense hugs you know that?"

"Sorry. I never had a family before." Connor chuckles in a teary voice. Hank had never seen him cry before.

After a few or hours, or what might of actually been a few seconds, they stop.

Connor runs a hand across his right eye, before turning towards the woman again.

"Uh, um.." He starts, struggling to get the word out at first. "Anderson. Connor Anderson." He tells her.

The woman types a few things in, before asking him to follow her, heading to get an ID.

Connor informs him when he comes back that he managed to blink despite to actually * _needing_ * to. And Hank laughs, rustling the androids hair a bit. And they leave.

The Andersons, leave.


End file.
